Page 5 of A Gifted Earl

Chapter Two

Despite their best efforts, Venetia spent close to a week in bed, being slightly feverish. The cut healed, but it was a little swollen, and tender to the touch, even though her mother and Mrs Jenkins had precisely followed the man’s instructions, and kept it perfectly clean. Finally, there came the day when Venetia woke to feeling clear of head and less aching of body, and with the desire to eat. She assumed that meant that she was actually getting better.

One thing that had not improved, however, was her memory of the day of her fall. The little she did remember was blurry and confusing – a mixture of darkness, pain, falling, and a man’s face. A man with deep brown eyes that were like forest pools – deep enough to drown in. A man she wasn’t certain was real. Her mother, Mrs Jenkins, and the maids had all told her their versions of what had happened, and none of it made sense.

How could a man who was dressed as a groom, and had come to collect a horse, have the skill and knowledge to perform the work of a surgeon – and perform it well, as they said? But they all agreed on the point that he had come to collect the horse, and on the point of his standard of dress.

Her stomach rumbled, and she pushed away thoughts of the man, focusing on reaching the small bell which lay on her bedside table, so that she could ring for breakfast.

Later that day, she rose from her bed for the first time since the fall, and was shocked at how weak and unstable she felt. She had wanted to go to the stables, to see how well her horse had recovered, but getting downstairs to the parlour proved to be nearly beyond her – the stables would have to wait for another day.

“Why are you looking so blue-devilled, Venetia? You should be happy that you’re well enough to be sitting down here, drinking tea in the parlour!”

She sighed.

“I know, Mother. But… I don’t like feeling weak, and I especially don’t like not being able to remember any of the last week, or more, clearly!”

“I, and all of the staff, have told you everything that we saw, everything that we know about what happened – what more do you need? What worries you so much?”

Venetia set the tea cup down, her hand only shaking slightly.

“I don’t know, really. I’d like to remember exactly what happened. But that’s not what worries me most. I’d like to know more about the man whose stitchery now graces my forehead. We don’t even know his name! I would thank him, if I could – I may now be scarred for life, but I am sensible of the fact that it could have been far worse, without his intervention.”

“That is kind of you – and honourable – but really, there is nothing we can do. It’s best that you put those thoughts aside, and concentrate on healing, and preparing for our time in London – mentally and physically. After all, it is almost certain that we will never see that man again.”

*****

Morgan took his time riding back to Crosswood, even though that meant staying overnight in an Inn along the way – the hours of working on the girl’s face had taken a heavy toll.

Lord Crosswood would not be worried – he trusted that Morgan would do things at a pace which was best for himself, and the horse. Having seen the horses settled in the Inn stables he ate an early dinner and went up to bed. The room was small, but clean and comfortable, for which he was grateful, and the maid came and lit a small fire as, even in summer, the nights could be cool.

He sat in the chair beside the hearth, planning to read a little before sleeping, only to find himself waking, still in the chair, hours later. That sleep had been shallow, drifting, full of dreams – dreams in which he saw the girl’s bloodied face again, dreams in which he imagined seeing her take that jump, and fall, dreams in which her leaf green eyes met his, full of some inexplicable meaning.

It had not been restful.

He shook his head, picked his book up from where it had fallen, then rose and stretched. Time to actually go to bed, and hopefully sleep far better. Tomorrow would be a miserable day on the road if he got no true rest.

Once in bed, he dropped almost immediately into sleep – sleep which was again filled with green eyes and a sense of unexplained importance. Still, he slept well enough to wake feeling refreshed with the dawn. Perhaps her face would stop haunting him once he got home.

By midday, he was nearing Crosswood, and his thoughts were mostly upon the tasks that awaited him there – the care of Lord Crosswood’s horses, the plans for next year’s breeding season, and the selection of the next horses to buy. He shook his head, bemused at what his life had become. The son of a second son, his claim to noble blood did not bring him anything of significance – he had, as expected of a man of that birth, gone into the military, which had suited him only barely better than the church would have, but he had not, ever, thought to end up working as a stablemaster.

Many would say it was beneath him, yet he found pleasure in it, for horses were far less demanding than men, and far more appreciative of care.

He gave a snort of laughter at the thought, as he rode up the long drive to Crosswood Hall. Beneath him… he was quite sure that the young Lady whose face he had sewn up regarded grooms and stable men of all kinds as beneath her, yet his skills had saved her from the worst consequences of her rashness.

What would she think about him, if she ever saw him again? Not that she would, of course – he had no reason to move in such circles as she would spend her life in. He had no need of high society, no need of anything but the life he had now, which was peaceful, satisfying, and generally without drama.

*****

A week after his return to Crosswood, Morgan was in the stables, where the last expected foal of the year had just been born. There was something delightful about new foals, with their gangly legs and curious nature, which restored his faith in the world. The mare nuzzled the foal, and Morgan had just managed to get it up and balanced on its legs to drink from its mother, when a sound came behind him.

“Excuse me, Mr Follett.”

Morgan slipped out of the loosebox into the stable corridor, and found a footman waiting for him.

“Yes?”

“Lord Crosswood asks that you come to his study. He said to tell you that it is regarding an important matter.”